


The Scars You Choose

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Series: Deception Series [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Eames, Developing Relationship, Gay Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Smut, Tattoos, Top Arthur, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 17:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12846243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: As they feel their way around their brand new relationship, Arthur watches Eames get a tattoo and is surprised by how exciting the process can be (read: smut ensues).





	The Scars You Choose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FiaMac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/gifts).



> Once I finished [112 Words for Deception](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12187275/chapters/27668727), I knew I wanted to write more, shorter stories in that same universe. This is the first of those. This takes place directly after 112 Words, but I don't plan for all of these stories to be chronological. This should probably be readable without having already read 112 Words, but it will make a lot more sense if you have.
> 
> I am hugely indebted to [FiaMac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac), whose brilliant concept took hold to make this story happen.

“What about this one?” Arthur traced his finger over the numbers lining Eames’ collarbone. “A secret?”

Eames chuckled. “Not anymore.” He grabbed Arthur’s finger and bit it gently, then dropped it so that he could continue his exploration. “It was the security code on the first big job I did. I was...nineteen? Thought it would be aces to have that number with me for life.”

Arthur laughed. “OK, that’s pretty fucking stupid.”

Eames shook his head. “No argument there.”

“Over the bone here, though, does that hurt?” Arthur was still tracing the ink with his finger, his touch nearly light enough to tickle.

“Sure. Hurts like…” Eames thought about it. “It’s persistent. Not like getting shot or stabbed or even punched. More like…” He trailed off. “Kind of hard to explain if you haven’t had it done, I guess.”

“Like having a fast retracting needle in your flesh?” Arthur said, smiling. 

“Well, yes, you condescending twat. But it’s more than that. There’s something pleasant about it, actually.”

Arthur lifted his head to rest his chin on Eames’ chest, so he could see his face. “Pleasant? Like acupuncture or something?”

Eames shook his head. “No. Acupuncture is a tickle. This is much more intense.” He bit his lip, still trying for an explanation that would make sense. “There’s a reason people get so many,” he said, finally. “It can be kind of sexual, I think.”

Arthur’s curiosity was piqued. “Sexual?” He frowned, considering. “Do you get hard while you’re being tattooed?”

“Have done. Not always.”

“Have you fucked your tattoo artist?”

“More than one of them, yes.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t take a genius to make that connection.”

Eames grinned, crooked teeth flashing in the dim light from the window. The sun was going down. “It’s not just that, though. There’s something more to it. Something about the invasion into your body, maybe? Like getting fucked in a small, sharp way?”

The conversation changed after that, and soon enough they forced themselves out of warm bed and into the nasty, wet London evening to find food. It had been a really good two weeks--things between them easier every day, the sex continually fantastic. Eames was surprised at how much he was enjoying showing Arthur his city. Arthur had, of course, been to London many times, but he was seeing it for what it was to Eames now, and that was new. 

It wasn’t without its problems. The last job still hung in the air between them sometimes, and Eames had seen Arthur shut his mouth sharply when he wanted to ask a question more than once. Eames had, a few times, told him more about the past, about Polly, but that didn’t seem to improve things any. The topic was still too raw, he figured. They had time. There was also some element of them just getting on one another’s nerves. After three days spent in Eames’ flat, Arthur had calmly explained that he was going to check into a hotel. It would be a close hotel, and he didn’t expect to spend overmuch time there, but he needed his own space. They were learning each other, not living together. It was the right decision, but still felt like a strange one. 

Not wanting to brave the weather for long, they settled on curry very close to Eames’ flat. As they dug into their plates, they began to talk about upcoming jobs. This was another topic they’d been dancing around, but after two weeks spent mostly together, it was inevitable it would surface. Though Eames was a dab hand at taking long spells off between gigs, Arthur could barely stand to take a week off, so he was getting anxious.

“Cobb called,” Arthur began, swirling sauce and rice together on his plate. “He’s got something coming up in Japan.”

Eames nodded. “How does it sound?”

“Not too far into the research yet, but it looks solid.”

“Check it carefully. He sure knows how to pick bad ones.”

“It’ll probably be quite a while,” he said. “A few months.”

Eames nodded, looking down at his plate for a moment. He was surprised by how that struck him. He never would have expected to be so disappointed at the idea of Arthur disappearing for several months. At the idea of anybody disappearing for several months, really. He’d always lived with that, and it had never been an issue. 

“There’s no forger role on it,” Arthur said quickly. Eames had noticed over the past weeks that when Arthur was saying something he wasn’t sure about saying, he tended to speak quickly, as if he hadn’t thought it out. “I checked.”

Eames smiled. “That’s OK. It’s not like we’re always going to work together.” He reached for a samosa. “How long until you go?”

“Two days.”

Eames hid his shock. He’d expected longer. “I’ll miss you,” he said, finally. 

“I’ll miss you, too.”

The rest of the meal passed with a bit of tension, but by the time they were back out on the street, trying to shield their faces from the pelting rain as they ran back to Eames’ flat, it dissipated. Inside, they stripped off most of their wet clothes just inside the door, then Arthur stood shivering in front of the ridiculous, creaky old radiator while Eames put the kettle on for tea.

“Stay here tonight?” Eames asked. Sometimes Arthur stayed, sometimes he went back to the hotel.

“Sure.” Eames grinned at Arthur, standing in front of the heater in his pants, still shivering. His hair was wet and curling. Eames walked over to him and wrapped his arms around him from behind. 

“You get cold so easily,” Eames observed. “I think it’s ‘cause you’re skinny.”

“I am not skinny!” Arthur objected, indignant. “We can’t all be He-Man like you. I am trim and fit.”

“That you certainly are,” Eames murmured, leaning his mouth down and biting gently at Arthur’s shoulder. 

Arthur laughed. “If you’re going to try to fuck me again, can I get that cup of tea first? I’m goddamn freezing. You people don’t heat your houses properly.”

“You people?” Eames raised an eyebrow as he walked back over to the kitchen. “And who says I want to fuck you?”

“I just take that as a given.” Arthur smiled over his shoulder. 

They were nearly asleep when Arthur brought it up again. They were lying next to each other in Eames’ big bed, not touching, listening to the traffic on the street outside. The rain had stopped and the window was open, so Arthur was under three blankets, while Eames was on top of them. 

“Are you going to get any new tattoos soon?” Arthur’s voice was soft, but it still seemed incongruously loud in the quiet room.

“Probably,” Eames replied. “I tend to get them after something big happens.”

Arthur was silent a minute, so Eames continued. “This whole last job--Polly, and you, and the way things have changed. That certainly gives me the urge to get a road marker.”

“What will it be? When will you do it?”

Eames chuckled. “I don’t actually have it planned. I’ve been a bit distracted.”

“Can you do it before I leave for Japan?”

Eames had no idea what Arthur was getting at, but he did so enjoy his focus once the bit was in his teeth. “I could,” he said. He leaned up on one elbow so he could see Arthur’s face, barely visible in the dark room. “Why?”

“Because I want to watch.”

Eames licked his lips as he considered. “Why’s that?”

Arthur tried to play it off. “Curiosity. Never seen it done before.”

“Bullshit, Arthur.” Eames was smiling now, predatory in the dark. “It’s because I told you it could be sexual, and now you can’t get it out of your mind.” He moved closer and ran a light palm under the blankets and over Arthur’s warm flesh. “You want to watch that needle penetrate my skin, and you want to watch how I react to it. You want to see if I get hard, if my face goes slack, if I moan?” He ran his palm down further, and as he’d expected, Arthur was hardening in his pajama pants. “You want to see it hurt, and you want to see me take it.”

Eames heard Arthur swallow and felt his cock jump. “Yeah,” he said, voice a bit deeper than its usual register. “So what if I do?”

“What’s in it for me?” Eames was holding his face just inches away from Arthur’s now, and he knew Arthur would be able to feel and hear him lick his lips, even if he was turned half away. “Why should I put on a show for you?”

Arthur turned toward him and reached his own hand out. It was warm from being under the blankets, so it felt hot against Eames’ chilled, bare skin. Arthur repeated the gesture Eames had just made, running his palm down Eames’ body and then stopping to palm the erection that was half-formed under his boxers. “I think you’d get off on it,” Arthur said. “I think you like the idea of me watching you. In fact, I know you do.”

The reference was unmistakable, and a dangerous one for Arthur to make, but it didn’t slow them down. Arthur continued. “I think you’d like to watch me watching you, too. I think you’d like to see how hard it makes me, how much it makes me want you.” 

Suddenly, Arthur moved back, removing his hand and pulling far enough away for Eames’ palm to fall off his hip. “Of course,” he said, returning his voice to a normal, no-nonsense tone. “If you’re not into that, that’s fine.”

Eames laughed as he rolled over, pulling the blankets away and pinning Arthur’s body under his. “No, no,” he said. “You don’t get to go back on it now. Tomorrow. We’re going tomorrow to get a new tattoo.” 

Arthur sighed and tipped his head back, clearly enjoying the hard friction of Eames on top of him, even through their layers of flannel. “What will it be?” he asked, not sounding as if he particularly cared about the answer.

“Dunno,” Eames responded, his voice already getting breathy, his mouth moving to Arthur’s neck. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

There were likely places in the country where you couldn’t get a same-day tattoo booking, but Camden wasn’t one of them. The next afternoon, Eames and Arthur were in a small, single-chair tattoo parlor, and Eames was explaining to the artist what he had in mind. The artist herself was nothing like Arthur pictured--he’d seen a large man with a shaved head, high-gauge ear piercings, and so much ink you couldn’t make out his features. Instead, they’d come to a shop with a tiny young woman, her pink hair in asymmetrical pigtails. She did have several facial piercings, and intricate tattoos ran up her arms and legs, shown off by her short shorts and tank top, but she was hardly the biker Arthur had envisioned.

Her name was Sasha, and Eames knew her slightly. She hadn’t tattooed him before, but he’d seen her at another shop, a few years earlier, when she’d been an apprentice. Trust Eames to remember every face. She remembered him, too, apparently from a story he’d told as he was having his tattoo done that day, about dressing up as a nun for a con at the Vatican. Arthur had heard the same story, more than once. He was almost positive it wasn’t true, but not quite.

Eames had cooked breakfast that morning. He was a lousy cook, but could manage eggs and toast on most occasions. As they’d eaten it at the little folding table Eames was using “until I find something right,” they’d discussed tattoo ideas. Arthur was fascinated and horrified by how lightly Eames seemed to take the whole decision of what to next add to his permanent collection. “Doesn’t much matter what it is,” he’d said cheerfully, picking up his tea cup. “I know why it’s there.” 

For location, Eames had threatened to get it somewhere embarrassing and horrible, like his ass, but Arthur had promised grievous bodily harm, so he’d decided on his chest. A lot of the real estate was taken, between the tacky drama masks, the ridiculous Union Jack, the architectural arches, and the anachronistic bird (was it a raven?) already living there, but Eames though a spot halfway down his right side, over his ribs, would work well enough. 

Eames grinned cheekily at Arthur as he stripped the t-shirt over his head and sat down on the table. Sasha had gone off to make a stencil of the design he’d drawn. Arthur sat down stiffly in the room’s only other chair, a creaky plastic thing. He wasn’t so sure about this whole idea as he had been before.

“What’s bothering you?” Eames asked.

Arthur shook his head. “I’m not bothered. Just realizing now that we’re here that it’s probably not very sexy, really.”

“Gotta give it a chance,” Eames said. “Not even started yet.” 

If Sasha could hear them, as she make the stencil in the shop’s only other room, she didn’t let on. She returned a few moments later, checking the art and placement with Eames. When they were satisfied, Eames laid down on the table.

Arthur watched with idle curiosity as Sasha washed and shaved the place where the tattoo would go, then carefully applied the stencil and pulled away the tracing paper. Eames chatted with her amicably as she worked, and she clearly found him charming, though it didn’t seem to be excessive. After Eames’ skin was marked with the image, she had him get up and inspect it in the full length mirror. He turned to Arthur. “What do you think?”

Arthur nodded. “Looks good.” It wasn’t so much that it looked good--it looked like it would be right at home with the rest of Eames’ questionable body art. But Eames himself certainly looked good, shirtless and smiling and obviously completely at home. 

“Did you want to watch this?” Sasha asked as Eames laid back down on the table. “If you stay over there, I’m going to be blocking your view. You can move the chair if you want.”

Arthur was silent a minute. Was wanting to watch a typical thing? She certainly seemed unphased. She continued. “Lots of people want to see it done before they do it themselves.” 

“Oh,” Arthur said, surprised. “I’m not...I don’t want a tattoo.”

“He’s just curious,” Eames said, smoothly. “Move the chair around so you can see. It’s fine.”

After Arthur moved the chair as instructed, there was still more prep. Sasha put out little pots of ink, removed things from an autoclave, set up what Arthur knew was the tattoo gun, but looked to him more like something between a dremel tool and an electric screwdriver. The noise it made gave him an instant headache. This had been a terrible idea.

Eames met Arthur’s eyes and read the burgeoning disappointment and disgust on his face. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if to say “give it a chance.” Then he bent one arm back, resting it under his head. Arthur noticed the ripple of his muscles under his skin as he moved, the play of all of the dark ink already decorating his chest and arms, and felt a little surge of excitement. He held Eames’ gaze. 

For the first few minutes of the tattoo, Arthur focused on Eames face. He was vaguely aware of Sasha, making tiny movements with her hand, the annoyingly loud tattoo gun going off and on. He could see the way the retractable needle moved in the way her arm minutely jerked back and forth. But he focused on Eames. Eames let his eyes drift shut, a small wrinkle forming between them. He didn’t grimace or bite his lips or particularly look to be in pain, but he did look concentrated. He looked like he was focused on what was happening to his body. Like neither Sasha nor Arthur were really there. It wasn’t arousing, exactly, but it was interesting to watch him go so quiet and still.

Eventually, Eames opened his eyes, but only halfway. They were hooded and dark, something behind them a bit fierce. As Arthur continued to watch his face, he ran his tongue out and over his bottom lip, a gesture that was probably intentional, but seemed unconscious. 

“You alright?” Sasha asked, stopping the gun. She put reached with her other hand for a paper towel and wiped away smeared ink to check her work. Glancing at it, Arthur noticed the small amount of blood welled up on Eames’s skin, mixing with the ink. His chest went stuttering and hot.

“Fine,” Eames said, his voice low. His eyes were on Arthur.

Sasha, bless her, didn’t try to make conversation while she worked. If she felt the two men staring at one another over her bowed head, she didn’t let on. A few minutes after she got back to work, Eames shifted slowly on the table, holding his upper body still as he rotated his hips in a tiny circle. Arthur’s eyes drew down to where he saw a bulge forming in Eames’ jeans. He looked quickly back up at Eames face and saw that he was grinning, then inhaling deeply and once again closing his eyes.

From that point, Arthur was gone. He shifted in his chair, his cock not yet hard, but the rest of his body seeming under fire from all directions. He was suddenly burning up and wished he could pull off his jacket and sweater. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Eames, his relaxed face, his tensed upper body, his growing and obvious erection. They didn’t speak to one another, but every time Eames opened his eyes, Arthur was staring at him.

After a few more minutes, Sasha stopped. “Quick break,” she said. “I don’t like how this ink is going in--I’m going to get a new bottle.” Before she stood, she carefully wiped the area she’d been working and put the gun aside, snapping off her gloves as she walked away. 

“Come look.” Eames’ voice was much lower than usual, slower and insistent, an almost purr. It was magnetic. 

Arthur stood for a better view and examined the patch over Eames’ ribs where the tattoo was forming. The skin was red, with tiny spots of blood welling up and some ink smeared around. The design was beginning to take form, maybe a third of the way complete. It didn’t look as much like an injury as Arthur had envisioned. The redness and slight puffiness put him in mind of the way Eames’ mouth looked after they’d kissed a long while, or the blush that ran across his neck and chest when he was close to coming. Arthur’s cock jumped.

Eames didn’t miss a thing. Smirking, as Sasha returned, he simply said “told you.” Then he settled back into his previous position and closed his eyes again.

It would have been impossible for Sasha not to have noticed the increasingly obscene bulge growing in Eames’ jeans as she worked, but she didn’t mention it or appear to be bothered by it. For his own part, Arthur had to work to steady his breathing, his eyes running over Eames’ body and face again and again. Occasionally, Eames would take a long breath, tilting his head back and parting his lips. The first time, Arthur thought it was a put-on, something orchestrated for his benefit. When Eames didn’t follow it up with an eye-fuck, though, he realized it was just Eames centering himself. He’d almost forgotten that what Sasha was doing had to be hurting him. 

“Is that a painful spot, over the ribs?” Arthur was surprised at the brittle quality of his own voice.

“Most people find it to be one of the harder ones, yeah,” Sasha answered, not looking up. “But every person is different.”

“It hurts, if that’s what you want to know,” Eames murmured, not opening his eyes. His tongue snaked out over his lips again and he parted them for another low breath. 

“You’re a pro at this, though,” Sasha said. “Not a sound.” Arthur couldn’t see her face, but she sounded more amused than impressed. Eames only hummed in response.

There was nothing overt about what Eames was doing--his movements were so slight as to be almost unnoticeable, and he rarely even opened his eyes. But it was clear he was putting on a performance for Arthur all the same. Every twitch of his hips, every tilt of his neck. Arthur cataloged each motion and grew increasingly breathless. It was the most subtle kind of seduction, like watching a high school crush from across the room, playing with their hair idly and stretching their arms languidly above their head. Though Eames was shirtless, Arthur’s gut held the same flicker of illicit joy he remembered from catching a glimpse of the strip of flesh between a boy’s waistband and shirt when he shot baskets in high school gym. It was enticing, and erotic, but beyond that it felt stolen, precious. In the hour or so Sasha spent on the tattoo, Arthur had the opportunity to examine every line of Eames’ upper body, every potential ripple as he made tiny movements. He watched Eames’ cock grow from a very slight bulge in his jeans to an unmistakable tenting, a centimeter at a time. He watched the flush spread from the spot where Sasha was working across the breadth of Eames’ chest and up his neck. And every moment he watched, he was more aroused. The tattoo gun was an odd, meditative soundtrack to the growing tension. Arthur barely noticed his own hardness, focused completely on the nearly visible throb between them in the air.

Finally, Sasha sat up. Quickly looking at Eames and then across at Arthur, she smirked, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she cleaned the finished tattoo with quick, efficient motions. “Go look,” she finally told Eames, turning her back to begin putting materials away while he sat up on the table.

Arthur stayed where he was, still rapt, as Eames took a few slow, sauntering steps toward the mirror, making no effort to his his groin. “Perfect,” he said after taking a quick look. “Thank you.”

Sasha smiled. “No problem.” The she met Arthur’s eyes, her amusement clear. “I’m going on an errand. I’ll be back in an hour. Leave me a really good tip.” 

Before either man responded, she’d left the shop, turning the front door lock as she went. 

Arthur tried to speak. “You...did you...she…” His tongue felt like a paperweight.

Eames grinned. “Nope. She’s just good.” He raised his eyebrows at Arthur, then crawled back up onto the table, resuming the position he’d been in while being tattooed, his arm behind his head. “So, what did you think?”

“Fuck.” Arthur breathed. It took him a moment to remember how his legs worked, but soon had them under him and was standing. Everything that had felt so still before was moving forward now, skipping regular speed and going straight to fast forward. “Take your pants off.”

“You do it.” 

Arthur got it, then. Part of this was about Eames’ body as an object. As his object. He gulped and moved forward, his hands working as fast as possible. He unfastened Eames’ jeans and pulled them and his underwear as far down as he could get them with Eames still lying on the table. Eames was fully hard, dark with blood and beautiful, straining. Arthur just looked his cock and breathed. “Get up,” he finally said, his voice dark and low. 

“Can’t really do that,” Eames answered, gesturing at where he was hobbled by his half-off jeans. Arthur grabbed his hands and pulled him up to sitting, then off the table completely, so he leaned up against it.

“Turn around,” Arthur commanded, maneuvering Eames body as he spoke. Somewhere in the back of his head was a niggling thought that he was being too demanding, going too quickly, but Eames was smiling, and Arthur was really too worked up to care. He positioned Eames the way he wanted him, leaned half over the table, resting on his elbows, his ass exposed and sticking out. 

Arthur sucked two fingers into his mouth quickly, wrapping his tongue around them to get them as wet as possible, then probed between Eames’ ass cheeks with them. He didn’t shove them all the way in, but he wasn’t gentle. Eames arched his back and didn’t complain, just exhaled sharply. He was utterly willing to be used.

Then he started talking. As Arthur continued to play with him, his fingers barely wet, Eames’ low voice barely carried to his buzzing ears. “Thought about this, while that needle was going in and out. Funny, in another world, I’d have been thinking about little Sasha, about whether she’d let me bend her over this table when she’d finished. But with you watching, all I could think of was you getting inside me the same way that needle was. Your fingers, your prick.” 

Arthur’s heart beat faster and he wanted to push the the fingers full inside, but it was too dry. Frustrated, he looked quickly around the room until his eyes fell on the tub of Vaseline Sasha had been using to protect the new tattoo. He didn’t hesitate to grab it, slicking his fingers generously and returning to his task. He went quickly now that there was less friction, opening Eames up with two fingers and then three. He ran his other hand repeatedly down Eames’ bent back, over his hips. Tentatively, he reached up and ran his thumb very lightly over the new tattoo. Eames hissed and pushed back against the hand breaching his body. 

Arthur couldn’t wait. He pulled his own trousers and underwear down quickly, getting them only to his knees before he grabbed more Vaseline from the jar and slicked it onto himself. His cock was throbbing and nearly purple.

“We don’t have a condom,” he told Eames. He’d allowed Eames to fuck him bare only a few nights earlier, after a clinic visit at the very beginning of his stay had cleared both of their false identities of anything transmissible. But he didn’t know how Eames would feel about doing it the other way around. 

 

“I don’t care,” Eames answered without hesitation, pushing himself back against Arthur’s legs. “Fuck me. Now. Hard.” He was thrusting shallowly against the edge of the table, which couldn’t possibly be all that fulfilling, as it was stainless steel and cold. 

Arthur didn’t ask a second time. He pushed in hard, not allowing time for Eames to accommodate the intrusion before pulling nearly all the way out and going in again. He wrapped one hand around the base of his cock to slow himself down, then repeated. In response, Eames growled--honest to fuck actually growled--and pushed back. It had to have hurt, but he was unbothered. Endorphins, thought Arthur vaguely, pushing in hard again.

The pace he set was slow but deep, each thrust considered and enacted with precision and strength. Eames pushed back against him on each one, not moaning, but gasping and arching. “Fuck, fuck, Arthur.” He’d described further the sensation of Arthur watching him while he got the tattoo, the weight of Arthur’s eyes and how hot it made him, but now he was reduced to simpler words. “God, yes,” and “Fuck, fuck, more.” 

Arthur was quiet, focused on watching himself move in and out of Eames perfect body. He thought a lot about how incredible Eames’ body was--how could he not?--but he’d never spent so much concentrated time enjoying looking at it as he had today, and his mind spun with the power of being allowed to breach it, being allowed to push and pull it, to fuck into it. It didn’t occur to him now how much bigger and stronger Eames was. He was in charge, fully. Eames was his, and he was fucking him over the table in a goddamn tattoo parlor. 

The shop was set down from the street, but there was a window in the front. Had anybody taken the few steps down, they’d have easily been able to see what was happening. Arthur didn’t care. He wanted them to see. He wanted the entire city of London to watch him fill Eames up with his cock. He must have said that aloud, because Eames chuckled beneath him, still pushing back against his thrusts. “Alright,” he said in the same low gasp. “You can fuck me at the top of the goddamn Eye if you want. On the steps of Buckingham Palace. In the middle of Trafalgar Square. Anything you want.” 

Arthur tried to laugh, but he didn’t have the breath. Instead, he increased his speed, pounding in now, the table creaking under them. Eames held himself on one elbow and reached underneath with the other hand, wrapping it around his cock. Leaning forward over his back, Arthur put his hand over Eames’. “Let me do this, too,” he murmured in Eames’ ear. 

Eames pull his hand away, using it to brace himself against the table. The angle was tricky, Arthur thrusting into Eames as hard as he could now while jerking him off at a similarly merciless pace. There would, later on, be bruises where Eames’ hips slammed against the table, and the muscles in Arthur’s thighs would be strained all night. But for a few moments, there was nothing but the pounding, nothing but the exquisite pleasure. It was everywhere around and between them, where their bodies met, not just with Arthur’s cock in Eames’ ass, but Arthur’s hand wrapped around Eames’ cock, Arthur’s chest plastered to Eames’ back, their legs, still stuck in their trousers, and their feet, still in their shoes, planted together. For a moment, it was as if Eames could feel the tightening in his thighs that Arthur felt on each thrust, and Arthur could feel the almost-soothing low level burn of the new tattoo over Eames ribs.

Eames came first, arching hard and spilling over Arthur’s tight fist, crying out “fuck, Arthur, FUCK,” then quiet, panting, rocking. A few thrusts later, Arthur followed, quieter, but just as intense. As he ejaculated, it occurred to him that he was filling Eames’ insides with himself, covering yet another part of his body. He knew better than to think of it that way, but it was possessive, and it made him happy. 

They leaned against each other and the table as they got their breath back. After a minute, Eames looked down at where his chest was painted with come, the new tattoo smeared with bloody ink, then looked at Arthur and raised an eyebrow. “I’m a fucking mess,” he said, grinning. He gamely pulled up his jeans, as not to drip Arthur’s come onto Sasha’s floor.

“Yeah, we’d better get this cleaned up,” Arthur said, dazed. He wiped his hand on the shreds of the table’s paper cover, then pulled up his own trousers. “They we can go back and shower.” He knew he sounded stupid and drunk, he could hear his own voice, but he couldn’t stop it. 

They moved around the room quietly and efficiently, cleaning it up like a crime scene, making sure all evidence of what they’d done was gone. Before they left, Eames left a stack of bills far beyond the price of a tattoo on the table. “I think I have a new favorite tattoo artist,” he joked as they stepped out onto the street.

“I’m not sure I want you seeing that one without me,” Arthur responded, still not thinking clearly. As he said it, he realized how it sounded and tried to bite it back, but it was too late.

Eames laughed and put an arm around him. “I like you possessive.”

Stunned, Arthur said nothing. 

Back at the flat, they stripped for a shower, pushing their dirty clothes into a pile on the bathroom floor. Before they stepped under the spray, Arthur stopped Eames. “Give me a look at it,” he said. He’d realized on the way home that he’d never even taken in the finished work.

Eames grinned and turned. The ink was still smeared, a bit of blood still visible, but the image was clear enough. Over his ribs, beneath the masks, a piece of eight flipped, Sasha’s skill making it seem to be in mid-air, moving between one face and the other. Much as he wasn’t one to take unnecessary risk, at that moment it didn’t even occur to Arthur that there was no way to know how it would land.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!


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